


Gethsemane in Winter

by vellaphoria



Series: A Fact or a Weapon (Earth-3 AU) [1]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: (or more like an earth-3 ish au), AKA, Angry Sex, Arson, Bruce Wayne is Owlman, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Earth-3, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Owlman is a Bastard, Patricide, Possessive Behavior, Rationalizing Murder, Topping from the Bottom, unhealthy relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:35:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22384966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vellaphoria/pseuds/vellaphoria
Summary: One of the first things Owlman teaches them is that there's no room in this life for maybes.Or for split loyalties.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Dick Grayson
Series: A Fact or a Weapon (Earth-3 AU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592242
Comments: 10
Kudos: 100





	Gethsemane in Winter

**Author's Note:**

> This is about as dubious as it is self-indulgently horrible. For the mental health of everyone involved, please mind the tags and warnings.
> 
> Also, please note that while this fic does draw on elements from canon, the timeline of this fic's backstory is slightly different. Because of this, Tim is about 20/21 here and Dick is around the tail end of 24. (Though he's only mentioned in the fic, or anyone who's curious, Jason is somewhere in the range of 22/23).

The snow bears steadily against the visor of Dick’s helmet, the early onset of winter in Gotham nearly blinding him. The storm had taken the city by surprise hours earlier, tying up public services and making the winding road to Drake Manor slick with the absence of salt and plows.

Not that Dick cares. He laughs wildly with each hairpin turn taken too quickly. His heart pounds and his veins overflow with adrenaline. Beneath him, his motorcycle slices through the snow, even as the ice beneath it shears in glittering sprays with each reckless swerve. The trees race by in a blur of snow-weighted evergreen and shadows too deep for even the moonlight to penetrate. The air whips against the leather of Dick’s jacket. This far from Gotham’s outskirts, the night around him is silent with promise. 

It feels like he’s been riding for hours by the time he crests the final hill.

On any other night, fifty or so tall lights would line the long, arcing driveway. Their warm glow would just touch the edge of manicured lawn; a charming, genteel veneer welcoming enough to challenge the facade Bruce has constructed at the front of his own mansion, two miles over.

Dick coasts his bike along the gentle curve edging the mansion’s front yard. The building’s silhouette rises up before him, dark and looming against the night sky. 

Without the grounds’ usual lights or the ambient glow of the city that he’s become so used to, it takes Dick longer than he would like to see the two cars haphazardly parked in front of the main entrance. He deliberates for a moment whether he should hide the bike and approach more stealthily on foot, but he quickly dismisses the idea once he gets close enough to see the pool of red forming beneath the ajar door of the closest car.

The cars have taken the prime location at the front of the drive, but the snow is falling thick enough to have already covered them in about an inch.

Dick won’t make the same mistake. Instead, he rides his bike a few feet more to the carriage house-turned-garage set off to the side of the main house. It’s already open, he notes, so it’s simple enough to wheel his bike in and park it where the snow won’t collect.

Inside the garage, he flips the kickstand, removes his helmet, and hangs it on one of the handles. Finally, he turns the bike – and more importantly, its headlights – off, plunging the grounds once more into darkness.

From his pocket, he pulls the tactical light that normally lives in his uniform’s utility belt. Bruce would probably scold him if he found out that Dick hadn’t suited up for this sort of nighttime activity – especially one so _sensitive._ But what the old man doesn’t know won’t kill him, and it’s Dick’s professional opinion that business this personal can’t be done right if there’s a mask between you and your work.

Besides, Dick would bet his second-best set of _bolo_ knives that Tim had gone in as a civilian on this one. 

Still, he takes a moment to untether the duffel he’d strapped to the back of the bike and sling it over his shoulder. If Bruce has taught him one thing, it’s that there’s no such thing as being _over_ prepared

Outside the garage, the tactical light gives the falling snow and ominous red cast. When he shines it at the two abandoned cars, the shadows they cast are long, stretching almost to the distant treeline.

Dick’s approach is measured and calm.

The first car is empty. Inside, the police scanner buzzes with static and snatches of half-heard words. To a trained ear, the voices’ broken demands are increasingly frantic.

It’s easy enough to pull over the on-board computer that comes standard with GCPD cars and to send out a code signaling that everything is okay for the moment. If Dick couples that with a notification of radio silence on this end of the line, well, that’s just forward thinking.

By the time he reaches the other car, the chatter has died down. It’s a bit of an uncomfortable position to stand about a foot from the car with a knee propped on the driver’s seat, but the pool of blood-soaked snow has grown since Dick parked and he doesn’t exactly want to track it everywhere.

The cop whose leg he had pushed out of the way to make space for his knee is still warm, despite the chill of the night and the blood congealing around the gash in his throat. 

It’s exactly the kind of clean, efficient kill he’d expect in this situation, and Dick makes a mental note to include that in his report.

Finally, Dick pushes off of the second car and begins to make his way to the mansion itself. 

Though the door is closed, the knob turns without resistance. And, once inside, it only takes a second to determine that the security system has been hacked. It’s probably sending some sort of false signal to the GCPD headquarters right now, roughly the equivalent of looping the visual feed on a security camera.

Like the outside of the mansion, the inside is dark and cold. Though Dick admits there’s thankfully less snow.

He’s walked these halls often enough to find his way with just the barest hint of moonlight filtering through occasional windows, but he’s still on high alert as he edges along the mansion’s large atrium. Slowly, he makes his way towards the large staircase sequestered at the back of the hall.

The mansion is deathly quiet despite his passage. There are no distant noises of staff keeping the place running behind the scenes, no humming of electricity along the wires within the walls. Only the sound of distant wind lashing against the mansion’s dark windows.

Dick barely has time to wonder where the other cops had gone off to before he finds them.

Or, their bodies.

They’re a sprawl of limbs and torsos at the top of the stairs. They’d been left to lie where they’d fallen, if Dick had to guess. Like their friend outside, they, too, have had their necks neatly sliced.

More recently, too, by the looks of it.

Dick steps around them. He takes a quick moment to remember which direction Jack Drake’s study is in before taking off to the left and turning at the second right.

Compared to the monstrosity Bruce inherited from his parents, the Drake mansion is only _vaguely_ reminiscent of a labyrinth. The hallways themselves are decorated with paintings which are each probably individually worth more than the circus trailer Dick’s parents had raised him in. He’ll have to remember to tell Jason about it the next time he strays from the straight and narrow and comes crawling back to them. Dick can just picture the spark of desperation in Jason’s eyes as he thinks about how stealing and selling a single painting from the Drakes’ collection could have fed him and his mom for nearly a month. Maybe that way he would have never had to resort to trying to chop shop the Owlmobile. Maybe he never would have gotten caught and could have kept his little family out of Bruce’s clutches entirely.

One of the first things Owlman teaches them is that there’s no room in this life for maybes.

Or for split loyalties.

Dick keeps his footsteps light as he approaches the door to the study. It’s open, though no light pours out from it.

The hinge is well-oiled and doesn’t creak as Dick pushes into the room. Inside, the curtains framing the large bay windows behind Jack Drake’s desk have been thrown open. Moonlight streams into the room, casting overstuffed bookcases and archeological artifacts into sharp relief.

It does little to hide the body slumped over on the desk, or the silhouette of Tim standing between it and the window, hands clasped behind his back as he stares out at the slowly falling snow.

The sight of it is so enrapturing that Dick nearly trips on the body lying on the the floor of the study. He moves his boot back quickly to keep his balance, accidently stepping on the woman’s halo of long, blonde hair. It’s enough pressure to turn the woman’s head towards him with a quiet shifting of hair against the floor. The sound it makes is so faint, that for a moment Dick thinks that Tim couldn’t have heard it.

Tim doesn’t turn from the window, doesn’t give any indication he’s noticed Dick’s entrance except to say, “put her back.” His tone is firm, inviting no argument.

And Dick isn’t here looking for a fight.

He kneels down, tilting Dana’s head so that she faces the ceiling once more. He fixes her hair, recreating the unbroken wave of gold surrounding her head. Her hands rest at her waist, folded one over the other. Part of him is glad that Tim had closed her eyes. The other part of him hisses in disgust; he hasn’t had a thought that weak since he first became Talon.

It’s testament to Tim’s skill that Dana’s expression is peaceful even as blood sluggishly trails from her neck. It must have happened too quickly for her to realize.

Dick steps back and around. His boots sink into the thick pile of the room’s carpet, but by the time he reaches the desk he’s standing on hardwood flooring once more.

Tim remains standing, facing the window. From the set of his shoulders, Dick has no doubt that Tim knows he’s at the desk. Even if he won’t further acknowledge him until he’s finished processing.

Dick stands at the desk for a solid minute before doing anything. Eventually, he has no choice but to take Tim’s non-reaction as permission to proceed.

Dana Winters’ death looked like it had been painess and - knowing Tim - merciful. 

This was... not.

In front of Dick, Jack Drake’s torso lays slumped over on the desk. His arms stretch out behind him at a sharp angle, tethered to the chair by his wrists. Dick reaches for a shoulder, tilting him just far enough to see Tim’s killing blow. Like the others, it’s a single line, straight and neat. Unlike the others, Jack’s eyes are open wide, his expression frozen in a rictus of utter terror.

He lets Jack fall back into the growing puddle of his own blood, moving his hand out of the way of the splatter.

Through his inspection, Tim had remained silent. Dick suspected he would continue to do so until he was ready. Which is fine. Dick is a patient man, and patricide – no matter how deserved – is no small matter.

Dick rounds the corner of the desk but stops before he quite passes it. He stands as still as one of the stolen figurines lining the bookcases and loses himself in the rhythmic ticking of the room’s grandfather clock. Outside, the wind shifts and intensifies, blowing the snow near-horizontally.

He counts about three hundred and twenty-seven seconds before Tim finally turns, just far enough that Dick can see his profile.

“Did Bruce send you?” Tim asks. He has to cover up the way that his voice breaks halfway through. He hides it well, but not well enough to fool someone who has known him as long and as well as Dick has.

“No,” Dick says. It echoes against the quiet of the study. “He thought you should do this on your own.”

“And what do you think?”

Dick takes a step forward but doesn’t dare come any closer.

“I think he was right,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean you have to be alone to deal with the aftermath.”

“Aftermath,” Tim scoffs. “Like getting rid of the evidence?”

“Among other things.”

The quiet creeps in around them.

Tim turns back to the window, shifting barely an inch to the side.

It’s all the indication Dick needs. He crosses the distance between them, moving to stand next to Tim.

He has to admit the view is beautiful. Beyond the glass, the mansion’s sprawling gardens are an alien landscape. The snow collects steadily, drowning the world in black shadows and shades of grey. 

Finally, Dick looks at Tim. This close, he can see the drying blood that stains the collar of Tim’s shirt and the way that the moonlight reflects dully off of half-dried tear tracks.

“Hey,” Dick murmurs. He steps closer, bringing a hand to Tim’s jaw and tilting his face into the light. With a gentleness many wouldn’t expect from him, he uses his other hand to wipe away Tim’s tears.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Let it out.”

Tim blinks up at him in dull surprise. As if he hadn’t even realized that he’d been crying.

Dick closes his eyes slowly, and the moment they’re fully shut, Tim leans into him. Arms burrow beneath his open jacket, wrapping around Dick’s torso. Dick returns the hug, using his own arms to shield Tim from the rest of the room. Tim tucks his face into the crook of Dick’s neck, and Dick ducks down to breathe against Tim’s hair, inhaling the pomegranate scent of his shampoo. If Dick feels the hot, wet dampness of tears against his skin or the way that Tim shakes in his arms, he doesn’t comment on it.

There’s a perverse sort of gratification in being the one to bear witness to this vulnerability, and Dick drinks in every moment.

They stand like that so long that Dick loses track of the clock and just lets himself hold Tim. 

When Tim eventually pulls back – just far enough to meet Dick’s gaze – his eyes are dry. There’s something different about the light behind them, and it sends a shiver down Dick’s spine. 

“Did you find where he hid the evidence?” Dick asks him. He keeps his arms around Tim. The thumb of one hand slowly stroking the skin on Tim’s neck exposed by his disheveled collar. 

Tim sighs. “Not yet. But I got a bit… sidetracked”

“Of course,” Dick says. He brings a hand up to brush Tim’s bangs out of his face, tucking them behind his ear. “Do you have an idea where it might be?”

“Yeah,” Tim mutters. He pushes back from Dick, looking out the window once more. Dick lets him go.

“I’m surprised he wasn’t keeping it on his desk,” Dick says, thumbing through the top of one of the stacks of paperwork. “Definitely wouldn’t be easy to find _anything_ in this mess…”

“It’s not -” Tim cuts himself off, choking on his words. “It wasn’t his style,” Tim corrects. He turns from the window, glancing derisively at the monument to deforestation surrounding Jack Drake’s body. “He’s got a safe in his room where he keeps most of his important things. We’re lucky he trusted the cops about as much as he trusted Bruce, or he’d have handed them the evidence the second he found it.”

Dick prods at the body again, trying to make out the writing on now blood-soaked papers beneath it.

“What was he working on then?” Dick asks.

“Nothing important,” Tim mutters.

Dick gives him a _look_.

“Nothing we can _use_ ,” Tim corrects, almost too quickly.

He isn’t wrong. The blood pooling across the desk has blotted out any hope of deciphering the forms’ original purpose. But something about the way Tim says it sets Dick on edge.

“Come on,” Tim says. “I don’t know the code to the safe, so I’m actually going to have to crack this thing. And we definitely don’t have all night.”

He turns and walks straight out of the room, pausing for a moment at Dana’s body before stepping nimbly around it.

Dick follows more slowly, taking care to also circle around.

The comparative dark of the hall deepens the shadows on Tim’s face. He only stops long enough to make sure that Dick is following him before taking off down the hall in the direction from which Dick came.

Tim eventually stops in front of a door made of dark, old wood. It’s just the same as every other door inside the house, with the notable exception of five separate locking mechanisms on the _outside_ of the door. They’re newly installed, by the looks of it.

Tim grumbles something that Dick doesn’t catch and gets to work on the first of them, pulling a small roll of cloth - and, presumably, lockpicking tools, from out of the thigh holster Tim keeps strapped to his leg at nearly all times. Dick can see it pretty clearly from where he leans against the wall, though not clearly enough to make out the glint of silver or the outline of a concealed weapon. The pouch itself is a custom-made, dark leather piece with separate compartments for the blade and telescoping shaft of Tim’s naginata. The exact mechanism by which the parts attach and separate is a mystery to all of them but Tim… and the last time someone got close enough to figure it out, he just went and changed the specs before it became common knowledge.

The holster, detachability, and general secrecy keep Tims primary weapon portable, sure, but Dick’s always thought that the whole thing was a bit more trouble than it was worth.

Though it’s not like he can really talk, at least given how cagey he tends to get whenever anyone asks him about the tech behind his electrified _bolo_ knives.

Before long, Tim has the last lock open.

If Dick had to guess, the door to Jack and Dana’s bedroom sees far less use that the door to the study. At least if the long, mournful creak of the hinges is anything to go by.

Once inside, the room is exactly the kind of bland, homeowners’ catalogue-looking thing Dick has come to expect from Gotham’s upper crust. Light streams in through the uncovered windows, illuminating the room’s inoffensive shades of cream and beige. They’re everywhere from the duvet to the long bench pushed up against what he assumes is Dana’s vanity table, and Dick thinks he hates the Drakes’ memory just a little more for their unoriginality.

The pictures on the walls look authentic but dull, clearly meant to accentuate the space more than they’re supposed to draw the eye.

It’s the one in the back corner of the room that Tim walks to, pulling it down off its nail to reveal a digital safe. From somewhere inside his hoodie he pulls a small, handheld device that Dick recognizes as one of the ones he tends to use in the field. Tim begins to interface with the safe itself, his fingers flying across the device’s projected keys at a speed that looks more like a blur than actual typing.

Now that Dick has time _and_ light, he finally gets a good look at Tim.

The blood is on more than his collar. There are splatters of it across his dark wash jeans and his sneakers, and full rivulets of it have dried on the arms of his hoodie. 

Dick shrugs off his duffel and places it off to the side of the room. He closes the room’s door while he’s at it and goes to sit on the edge of the bed that’s closest to where Tim is working.

“How’s it look?” he asks.

“Not too bad,” Tim says, distractedly. “The system’s been upgraded recently, but it shouldn’t take too much longer.”

Dick nods, leaning back to prop his arms against the bed. Say what you want about Jack and Dana’s taste in décor, but the mattress is pretty damn comfortable.

Not too much longer turns into longer than Dick would have expected, but Tim scoffs and pops the safe door open before Dick can seriously consider pulling out some throwing knives and practicing on one of the bedposts.

After running a quick sweep for traps, Tim sticks his hands into the safe. They emerge with a thick file, along with what looks like a photograph.

He hands both of them off to Dick.

The picture itself is one of Tim while he’s wearing every part of his Talon suit but the mask. It has a timestamp on it, and Dick recognizes the background as outside of the mansion, three stories and one overgrown trellis below Tim’s bedroom.

“He started getting suspicious,” Tim says, staring out through the bedroom’s window. “The cameras went up while I was visiting you in Blüdhaven. By the time I’d noticed the new addition, he’d done a deep dive into Wayne Enterprises’s public records. Bruce hid _his_ paper trail, obviously, but with how far he’s stretched his influence, that’s just not enough. Someone down the chain of command fucked up…” Tim’s voice gets quiet, dropping until Dick has to strain in order to hear it. “My dad had it out for Bruce for years, but I guess finding out that _I_ was involved was the nail in the coffin…”

“This isn’t your fault,” Dick says, even though the platitude tastes like ash in his mouth. “I don’t care _what_ Bruce says, you can’t possibly plan for everything. Things are gonna go wrong sometimes. And when they do… we fix them.”

“Like we _fixed_ tonight?” Tim snaps.

The burst of emotion in his voice is unexpected, and Dick finds himself taken aback.

“You _know_ how this line of work is, Tim.”

“Do I?”

“Considering what Bruce would put you through if he heard you say that? You damn well better.” Dick says it as softly but firmly as he can. After everything that happened with Jason, they’re all _keenly_ aware that Bruce’s tolerance for disobedience is strained at best these days.

Tim, however, seems to have forgotten about that particular development.

“But _why_ , Dick?” he asks, nearly shouting. “Why does it have to be like _this?_ ”

There is no good answer to that question, though several easy ones come to mind.

 _Because_ _the world is hard and cruel, but not nearly as hard and cruel as we are_ Dick thinks but discards almost immediately. _Because I’ve seen that twitch in your mouth when your naginata slices a person open from pelvis to neck – the same tic that translated to anyone else would be a full-blown manic smile_. _Because you joined us willingly, have fought with us, roosted with us, all of your own volition. Because now that we have you, we’re never going to let you go._

 _Because_ I’m _never going to let you go._

Tim closes his eyes. When he opens again, they’re full of unshed tears that glisten in the moonlight.

“Travel arrangements,” Tim says. “What my dad was working on was _travel arrangements_. For him and Dana. They were going to leave Gotham later this morning. They weren’t planning to come back.”

“Tim…”

“I’ve been keeping this a secret since I was _fourteen_ , Dick. It can’t have been more than thirty-six hours since my dad’s camera took that picture, since he dug up the paperwork and installed the locks and told the _fucking GCPD_ that his son is working for Owlman. How is it that I’ve been doing this for seven _years_ and _now_ he figures it out? And not even _two days_ _later_ he tries to get me arrested and makes plans to... to _leave?_ _Just like that?_ Because his son turns out to be – ” A choked sob cuts off the end of his sentence. Tim stares despondently at the picture clasped between Dick’s hands, at the way that Dick’s grip on it is so tight that it threatens to rip the photograph in two.

Tim wraps his arms around himself, turning to the window and glaring at the Gotham skyline as his eyes threaten to spill over.

Dick feels the burn in the back of his throat as his own eyes start to feel watery. Empathy, perhaps. Though Tim is one of the few who for whom he suspects he’s capable of feeling it. 

“He was too fast,” Dick placates.

“Or not fast enough,” Tim forces out between gritted teeth. “Or Bruce’s contact in the GCPD was just _faster_.” 

“Would it have really changed anything?” Dick asks, gently. “If they had gotten out of the city in time?”

At that, Tim’s entire body goes still as one of the statues in the distant garden. His eyes widen and then narrow.

The tension in the room is so thick that Dick can barely even breathe.

And then, without prelude or warning, convulsions visible to the naked eye begin to wrack Tim from head to toe.

Dick _knows_ that the correct thing to do in this situation is to let Tim control how – and even _if_ – Dick should comfort him. But everything inside him is screaming to go to him and shield him from the harsh realities of their existence.

So he does.

The file and the photo lie forgotten on the bedside table. Dick moves forward, slowly, approaching Tim at a pace that gives him enough time to back away. He doesn’t. Tim lets himself be wrapped up in Dick’s embrace, lets himself be held tight in Dicks arms and pressed close to him for the second time that night.

The silent tears of earlier are long gone, and Tim buries his quiet sobs deep in juncture between Dick’s neck and shoulder. Dick welcomes it, curling around Tim as best he can.

“It’s better this way,” he murmurs against the skin of Tim’s forehead, lips brushing his skin. “At least _you_ were there to make it clean and painless. You _know_ how it would have turned out if they’d left Gotham and Bruce had decided to track them down _himself_ …”

At that, Tim tightens his grip until he’s practically clinging to Dick.

“I know,” he mumbles against Dick’s chest. “I know.”

“It’s the best thing you could have done for them,” Dick reassures him.

It’s a cold comfort at best, but Tim seems to accept it all the same. At Dick’s prompting, he backs up with him until they’re sitting on the bed, still just as wrapped up in each other.

“Hey,” Dick says, softly. “Are you going to be okay with the next part?”

When Tim looks up at him, his eyes are pale and watery. A tear rolls down his right cheek, and Dick leans forward to kiss it away.

“I – I’m not sure.”

“Believe me,” Dick murmurs. “I want nothing more than to take this burden from you. But Bruce wants _you_ to do it.”

Tim’s laugh is a startled, strangled thing. “That asshole just likes the symbolism,” he says. The words are bitter in his mouth.

“You’re not wrong,” Dick chuckles, humorously. “But seriously. I’ve bought us a bit of time; they left the radio on outside, so the GCPD thinks its officers are on radio silence. And, you know, still alive. The situation’s a bit… _delicate_ , so they’re probably going to err on the side of caution. I’d say we only have two, maybe three hours tops before someone comes looking in person.”

“That’s not long…” Tim mutters.

“No, it’s not.”

“I’m not sure I can do it,” Tim says.

“Well, let’s start small.” Dick brings a hand to Tim’s front, running it along the collar of the shirt peeking out from underneath his hoodie. “The clothes are going to have to go. Before you object –” Dick holds up a hand, placating. “I brought extras in case things got… messy.”

He gestures over at the duffel sitting by the wall. Tim narrows his eyes at it but doesn’t argue.

“ _Fine,_ ” he says, extracting himself from Dick’s arms.

With rough, choppy movements he pulls the hoodie off of himself, gripping at the back of it and yanking so hard that he takes his undershirt halfway off with it. Tim flails a bit with the t-shirt trapping his arms, but eventually that, too, gets unceremoniously thrown to the ground. Next, he goes for his jeans, but he tries to go too quickly and ends up swearing at the button more than actually undoing it.

Dick steps up behind him, reaching around to layer his hands over Tim’s.

He doesn’t say anything. He just hooks his chin over Tim’s shoulder as he works the button open and unzips the fly, his hands drifting back along Tim’s hips to thread through his belt loops. Tim toes off his shoes and socks, and together they pull off his bloodied jeans. The boxers seem fine, but Tim pulls them down and off anyway, leaving him standing entirely naked in the middle of the bedroom.

Without warning, he spins to face Dick, his hand shooting out and fisting in the lapels of Dick’s motorcycle jacket. With desperate strength, he yanks Dick down until he’s closed the two inches that Dick has on him these days. It isn’t graceful, and it certainly isn’t sweet, but Tim slams his lips into Dick’s with the force of a man who has nothing left to lose. Their teeth clack against each others’. Tim’s other hand buries itself in Dick’s hair, pulling him closer. He presses his entire body against Dick’s front until there is no space between them.

When Tim pulls away, Dick tries to follow him. But Tim only presses a gentle kiss to the corner of Dick’s mouth.

“I know what I have to do,” Tim says. “But I can’t stop thinking about what I did to my family… about what Bruce _made_ me do to them.”

At the word ‘family,’ Dick feels himself bristle. A growl builds in the back of his throat.

“ _We’re_ your family,” he says.

“I know,” Tim placates. “But so were they. Which is why in order to do this, I need you to help me forget… tonight. Them. _Everything._ ”

“How…?” Dick asks.

Tim presses another kiss to his face, this time against the underside of Dick’s jaw. “You know how.”

Dick does. If he’s honest, they’ve been dancing around this for a while now. But it always seemed just out of reach. Maybe after the next mission, or the next time Bruce is out of town. It had to wait until after Tim’s dad has stopped nosing around or until the most recent hero-related crisis has been resolved. Excuses, excuses, excuses.

There are no excuses now.

And Tim –

Tim presses an open-mouthed kiss to Dick’s neck, worrying the skin in a way that Dick knows will bruise come morning.

– Tim may need this almost as much as Dick does.

Dick ducks down, pressing his forehead to Tim’s. The warmth of Tim’s breath ghosts over him, and Dick shivers.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

The hand fisted in Dick’s jacket yanks it sideways, pulling it off of his shoulder. Dick rolls with it, moving his arms so that the jacket drops off of him and onto the floor. He pulls his shirt off by himself, and it’s quickly followed by the rest of his clothes. Tim gives him space for the sake of expediency, but the hunger in the way his eyes trail up and down Dick’s uncovered body only spurs him faster.

The very moment he’s as naked as Tim is, Tim practically tackles him into the bed.

Dick goes flying back with the force of it. Tim has gotten _much_ stronger in the last few years, but he’s still not quite strong enough to _keep_ the upper hand once Dick’s back hits the bed.

He uses Tim’s momentum to flip the two of them, rolling until Dick is on top, pinning Tim’s legs with his thighs and trapping Tim’s wrists above his head with one of his hands. The other hand trails down Tim’s chest, moving to twist Tim’s nipple with a force that causes Tim to cry out.

“ _Do that again_ ,” Tim moans, writing where he’s held against the mattress.

Dick does. And then he does it a third time just to see Tim squirm. He ducks his head down, sucking a bruise into the thin skin above Tim’s collar bone. He leaves another at the top of his pec, and another after that until he’s worked his way down to Tim’s as-yet untouched nipple. He fixes his teeth around it, biting gently before seeing how much darker he can make the areola with his ministrations.

“ _Dick,”_ Tim whines, writhing beneath him. His hips buck up into Dick’s, rubbing his hardening cock against Dick’s stomach. From the feel of it, Tim is already leaking pre-come.

Dick smirks at that like it’s a badge of pride. “Yeah?” he asks, staring down at Tim with hooded eyes.

Tim thrusts against him again. It’s purposeful this time, slow and languid.

“Need more,” Tim murmurs. His legs fall further apart, making space for Dick between them. They wrap around his back, crossing at the ankles. “Check my holster. There’s a pocket to the left of the blade.”

 _More_ is something Dick can do. With a final, bruising kiss, he lets go of Tim’s wrists and releases the pin. The bed is wide enough that he has to crawl to get to the edge of it, but once he’s there, it’s easy enough to reach for Tim’s discarded holster.

It takes him longer than expected to find the hidden zipper, but it does turn out to be exactly where Tim said it would be. From inside the pocket, he pulls out a small vial of what looks like blade oil.

He holds it up, looking back over his shoulder at where Tim is lying. The sheer _openness_ of the pose is enough to make Dick’s heart skip a beat. The way that Tim’s arm muscles flex as he crosses them behind his head, the sharp definition of his abdomen, the long, lean strength in his legs.

This is a man he’s trained with, fought with, and killed with. Their bond is forged in blood several times over, and tonight was the final sacrifice, the final show of _devotion_ that Tim finally theirs _. His._

It’s an inevitably that has been years in the making. Tonight, all the disparate pieces of Bruce’s meticulous plotting are coming together. His careful manipulations of all of them – Dick reluctantly included – have only ever had one aim in mind: tethering this little fucked up family together so irrevocably that none of them can ever hope to escape it.

And, as a slow smirk curls its way across Tim’s face and his legs splay wide. As Dick makes his way between them, pulled under by Tim’s current. As he lowers himself on top of him, tilting his head to bite bruises into Tim’s lips –

As all these things happen, Dick can only stare into Tim’s eyes and know that this, somehow, is the final bar in Tim’s cage. Hell, it might also be Dick’s.

Bruce gets their loyalty, and they get each other.

He wonders if it’s more fucked up that Bruce is pulling this many strings or that in this moment he wouldn’t change a thing.

Dick grinds up against Tim, shuddering at the brush of their cocks. Tim clings to him, his breaths coming quickly as Dick thrusts again, catching Tim’s moan with his mouth.

He knows, too, that after this there will be no going back.

Not from Owlman. Not from the Syndicate. Not from… _this_.

Because once Dick has finally been able to taste this – to _take_ this fantastic, frustrating, absolutely _terrifying_ man – well. 

Dick braces himself on his hands, crawling back down the length of Tim’s body to settle between his legs. Tim’s cock stands erect before him, thick and flushed. He presses a quick kiss to the head of it. Tim’s pre-come is salty against his lips, and Dick licks them in anticipation before taking Tim’s cock in his mouth. It’s bigger than he would have estimated, but he still doesn’t stop until he’s at the base of it, right against the nest of wiry hairs that he finds there. The head of it bumps against the back of his throat, and not for the first time Dick is glad that he trained himself out of his gag reflex years ago.

Beneath him, Tim arches up, jarring Dick slightly with his movement. Tim moans, loudly, and Dick only encourages him with each flex of his throat muscles. Tim’s hands hover above his head, unnecessarily tentative. When he’s at the tip of it, Dick swirls his tongue around the head, and Tim half cries out in surprise. His hands bury themselves in Dick’s hair, their grasp tight as he pulls Dick down in time with a sharp thrust up.

Tim gasps. Like he’d been burned, he yanks his hands back and begins muttering something that’s probably an apology.

Dick pulls off, staring across Tim’s body at him, meeting his guilty eyes. 

“Do it again,” Dick says, smirking mischievously.

Tim raiess and eyebrow, but Dick’s only response is to sink back down on him. 

This time, Tim’s much less hesitant. His grip on Dick’s head is firm and unrelenting as he directs Dick’s pace and movement to sate his own pleasure. 

Dick lets him, reaching down and palming himself as Tim takes what he wants. What _both_ of them want.

“ _Dick,_ ” Tim moans, fucking his mouth faster.

 _I’m right here_ , he wants to say. But that would mean stopping _this_ , and that’s the last thing Dick wants to do right now. Instead, he hollows out his cheeks, sucking harder. With the hand that isn’t otherwise occupied, Dick traces the puckered rim of Tim’s hole. It flutters at his touch, and when he pushes inside - only to the first knuckle of the first finger - Tim strains to get closer to him.

“More,” Tim mutters, grinding up. His fingers dig into Dick’s scalp in white-hot bursts of pain. Dick pushes his finger the rest of the way in, and Tim groans long and loud.

“Dick, I’m -” he says, breathlessly.

It’s all the warning Tim gives him before Dick is shoved all the way back down, his face flush against Tim’s pelvis as hot ropes of come flood his mouth. His eyes flick up to meet Tims’s hooded gaze, eyes boring holes into him as he swallows down Tim’s release.

When Dick pulls off, his lips are wet with it, and he wastes no time in climbing back up Tim’s body to let him taste himself. 

Tim’s hands clench in Dick’s hair. His legs wrap around Dick’s torso. He rises to meet Dick as Dick grinds down against Tim, smearing his own pre-come against washboard abdominal muscles.

His tongue delves into Tim’s mouth, battling for dominance. He loses, but as a consolation prize he pulls back to build on the mosaic of bruises that will be Tim’s neck in the morning, Tim tilts his head, his breath ghosting over the shell of Dick’s ear. 

“Pass me the lube,” he says.

And, well. Who is Dick to argue?

He feels around the rumpled sheets until his fingers meet the cold glass vial of oil. He hands it to Tim, but the second Tim has it in hand, he pushes Dick off of him firmly, but not unkindly.

“Watch,” he says, smirking.

So Dick watches. 

Next to him, Tim unstops the vial, liberally coating his fingers with the blade oil. He splays his legs wide, letting his hand drift down his body until it reaches his perineum. The trail of oil it leaves glistens in the dim light, highlighting the definition of Tim’s muscles.

With the lube, the first two fingers enter easily. Tim tips his head back wantonly, bearing his neck. 

Dick starts to move forward once more - 

“Stop,” Tim says. 

Dick stops.

Tim scissors his fingers, thrusting them in and out of himself. The sound is obscene.

“Stay right there,” Tim says. He props himself up on one elbow, not even watching what he’s doing. Instead, his eyes are locked on Dick’s face, taking in every little change in expression as Tim pushes a third finger inside himself. Dick’s mouth hangs slightly open of its own volition. He tries to control his breathing but mostly fails. Vaguely, Dick gets the impression that Tim does this more than occasionally.

Between beautifully tones legs, Tim’s rim stretches beautifully to accommodate his oil-slick fingers. It could stretch more…

“ _Tim_ ,” Dick pleads. 

“Didn’t Bruce teach you _patience_ when you were Talon?” Tim deadpans.

Dick chokes, just a little. “Do you have to bring him up _now?_ ”

“Sorry.” Tim doesn’t _sound_ sorry. “I guess I did tell you I didn’t want to think about anything, didn’t I?” He crooks his fingers, finding _just_ the right spot from the way he shudders and groans. He thrusts his fingers in again, sliding his elbow out from beneath him and sinking back against the mattress with a choked moan. 

Dick is on him almost immediately. Covering him, pulling Tim’s legs around him.

“Hurry up,” Tim says, pulling his fingers out. He wipes them on the bed before grasping Dick’s wrist and urging him forward.

“ _Now_ who’s impatient,” Dick mutters. 

Tim only laughs. 

Dick reaches down, lining up the head of his cock with Tim’s hole. He’s well prepared, and it takes barely any effort for Dick to enter him, pushing past the ring of muscle. He slides forward in a long, slow thrust until he bottoms out, pressed flush against Tim. Dick stills, giving Tim a moment to adjust.

Tim’s breath is deep and faster than normal. His hand clenches against Dick’s wrist until Dick pulls out of his grasp to thread their fingers together. He leans forward, bracing their clasped hands against the mattress as he holds himself over Tim.

“You okay?” he asks.

Tim shifts a bit, blinking up at Dick. “Yeah,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Dick doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls out until only the head of his cock is still in Tim before thrusting in quickly. Tim gasps, and Dick thrusts again. Tim arches up, pushing back against him. 

They quickly build a rhythm, echoed in the persistent slap of skin on skin each time Dick pushes back in. 

Tim’s free arm loops around Dick, keeping him close. Sharp nails claw into him, scratching against Dick’s back with each thrust. The pain spurs him on faster. The bed beneath them creaks, shifting in time with each thud of the frame against the wall. The pictures in the room rattle on their nails

It strikes Dick that, of all places, they’re doing this on Jack Drake’s bed. Or, former bed, he supposes. He has a passing sick fascination with the thought that, had the night gone differently, Tim might have killed Jack in his sleep. 

He wonders if this is still how the night would have ended if the sheets had been stained red.

With a particularly hard thrust, Dick leans in close, biting at the corner of Tim’s jaw.

“Something you said earlier,” he says, grunting with the effort of his movements. “About family.”

“What the fuck, Dick?” Tim growls. “What part of _forgetting_ do you not understand.”

Dick sneaks a hand between them, curling his fingers around Tim’s cock. Tim arches into it.

“The part where they're even _worth_ remembering,” Dick pants, twisting his grip. “Why bother? They betrayed you. They were going to _abandon_ you.” 

Tim cries out, his hand stilling as his nails pierce Dick’s skin. “It’s _complicated_ ,” he hisses. 

Dick moves his hand slowly, a counterpoint to the speed of his thrusts. Tim writhes beneath him, but his expression teeters on the edge of rage.

“Then _un-_ complicate it.” Dick lets go of Tim’s hand, shifting back on his knees and using his arm to lift Tim’s hips and deepen the angle. “The margin of error in this line of work is _microscopic_ . Any distractions, any _doubts_ are nothing but weaknesses for our enemies to exploit.” 

Tim glares up at him, even as he grinds his hips against Dick’s, chasing friction.

“What if,” Dick starts, forcing his words into coherent sentences. “What if dwelling on this causes you lose focus in the field?” A deep breath. “What if you try to _leave?”_

“Does it look like I _care?_ ” Tim nearly yells. He locks his ankles behind Dick’s back, bracing his now free arms beneath him. “If I leave, that’s my own damn choice. And if _he_ has a problem with it, he should have thought about that _before_ _he made me kill my dad._ ”

Dick shouts, pinning Tim’s shoulders against the bed. 

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” he hisses, inches from Tim’s face. “Just like _Jason._ ”

The fire behind Tim’s eyes could scorch the Sun. “I’m _not_ Jason.”

“Then _prove_ it.” Dick’s movements slow until he’s hovering above Tim, motionaless. “Show me you can move past this before _I’m_ not the one asking.”

“ _How?!_ ” Tim squirms beneath him, but Dick won’t budge. “The only thing _this_ is proving is that I won’t forget what happened here tonight. I _can’t._ ”

“I’m not _asking_ you to,” Dick pleads. “You don’t have to forget. You don’t even have to _forgive_ him. You just need to _stay._ ”

The moonlight catches on a faint sheen in Tim’s eyes, but it’s gone the second Dick notices.

“You want me to _stay._ ” It would have been a question if Tim hadn’t said it so flatly. “You want me to _work with him_ after... _this._ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dick insists. 

“ _Why?_ ” Tim’s hand finds Dick’s wrist. His bones grind beneath the strength of Tim’s grip.

Dick’s heart thumps in his chest. His skin tingles with the thrum of blood in his veins, and his arms feel weak. He lowers Tim to the mattress, pulling out almost as an afterthought. His head hangs of its own volition, dark hair sweeping across his face.

The rest of the Syndicate think that expressing emotion comes easier to him than to the rest of them. That his smile is genuine even when it isn’t vicious.

The rest of the Syndicate are idiots. 

“... because I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Dick whispers, his eyes falling shut.

He wonders if Tim hears the double meaning behind it. If he understands what Dick is really afraid of. What he’d do anything to stop from happening. Or, rather, from happening _again_.

The stillness of the big, empty mansion creeps beneath the door, rising until it fills the room. Dick’s never understood it when people said that silence could be loud, but he thinks he gets it when he can barely hear the sound of their breathing over the quiet.

The air shifts. So does Tim. 

The hand pushing aside his bangs doesn’t surprise him. The gentleness does.

When he opens his eyes, they feel watery.

“Dick,” Tim says, softly. 

Something hot and wet trails down Dick’s cheek. 

Outside, the wind howls against the mansion’s windows, held back only by the glass.

Dick leans into his hand, pressing his lips against Tim’s palm.

“You know I can’t promise that,” Tim says, so quietly that Dick nearly doesn’t hear it.

“I know.” His response is muffled by Tim’s hand, but Dick knows that he still hears it.

Tim pulls his legs back, sitting up until they’re both kneeling on the bed. He brackets Dick’s head with his hands, leaning in. His breath ghosts across Dick’s face. The press of Tim’s lips against the corner of his mouth is so soft it’s barely there. 

“But still,” Tim says, words ghosting across Dick’s skin. “You should also know that I’d never leave _you_. Damn Bruce and damn his plans for this hellhole of a city. Whatever happens,” Tim draws in a breath. His heart beat is close enough that Dick can feel it. “You know I’m still yours.”

Dick’s eyes fly to him. He doesn’t know if the expression on his face is surprise or relief or something else entirely. 

Tim looks back at him. The fire in his eyes has sunken down to embers, but the determination in them is steel tempered by the earlier inferno.

“And _you’re_ still mine,” Tim says. He leans forward, planting his hands on Dick’s shoulders. He pushes against them, gently at first, but then firmly enough that Dick finds himself sinking back. Pressed against the bed. Tim above him.

Tim kisses him, a brand against his lips. “You’ve always been mine,” Tim whispers. “Ever since the night I first saw you, before either of us ever really knew what it was to _hurt_.”

Dick moans, tipping his head back. Tim leans into the newly exposed tract of skin. He works at the lighter mark he’d left earlier, catching it in a gentle bite.

He reaches down, tracing Dick’s side, the cut of his hips. Tim’s grip around him doesn’t waver as he works Dick back to full hardness. His other hand curls around Dick’s neck, thumb tracing his adam’s apple. 

“Whatever happens,” Tim says, swinging a leg across Dick’s hips, straddling him.

Dick’s hands drift to Tim’s hips, his touch light. “Whatever happens.”

Tim’s smile is small, genuine, and only for him. He stretches farther, shifting until the crown of Dick’s cock presses against him once more. 

The slide in is easy. Dick groans with it, bucking his hips. 

It won’t take long.

Tim pushes up, almost to the end of Dick’s cock, before dropping back down. And again. 

The friction of each rise and fall building in Dick’s brain with the pressure of a coming wave. Like water pulled back into the ocean, exposing the rough sand beneath it before swelling, cresting, crashing against the shore.

Dick moans as it washes over him, sinking into the pleasure of his climax. 

Tim’s own release is a hot splatter against Dick’s chest, his hand curling loosely around his cock. His breaths are shallow as the rises to his knees and off of Dick. The evidence of their union drips down Tim’s inner thighs. 

Tim brushes his hand across Dick’s chest, trying to clean it somewhat ineffectually. Before he can wipe his hand on the sheets, Dick catches his wrist, pulling it towards him and sucking Tim’s fingers into his mouth.

Tim’s breath stutters. He sinks forward, falling in slow motion into the space left between Dick’s chest and his arm. His head pillows against Dick’s shoulder. When Dick finally releases Tim’s hand, it curls against Dick’s collar bone. His entire body is pressed against Dick’s.

Despite what they’d just been doing, somehow this feels like more than any sex ever could. Closer. More vulnerable. 

He feels the soft sweep of Tim’s eyelashes as he closes his eyes, relaxing against him.

Dick curls an arm around Tim’s back. His fingers trace unknowable shapes into Tim’s skin. His other hand reaches to cup Tim’s face, tipping it up until Tim opens his eyes.

Blue sky staring back at him. 

“We’ll get through this,” Dick says. 

Tim’s eyes are tight. Resigned. 

Dick wishes more than anything that he could take this burden from him.

Without a word, Tim pushes up off of him, twisting off of the bed. He stands, feet sinking into the room’s plush carpet. He pulls a handful of tissues from the box on the bedside table before tossing it to Dick.

He doesn’t need a second hint.

Once they’re both reasonably cleaned up, Tim walks to the wall where Dick had dropped his duffel. From it, he pulls the spare set of clothes Dick had brought him. 

Dick’s glad he’d had the foresight. Tim’s earlier clothes are a bloody wreck.

As Tim gets dressed, Dick collects his own clothes from where they’d fallen. With the exception of a sock that he has to fish out from under the bed, getting them back on goes reasonably quickly.

When he turns, Tim is dressed in one of his favorite pair of jeans, a shirt with some nerdy slogan Dick would probably need to use a search engine to figure out, and a jacket that may or may not technically be Dick’s.

Dick’s eyes roam appreciatively at the way Tim looks wearing his jacket. He’s really filled out in the last few years, but the leather is still a bit loose around Tim’s shoulders.

Tim raises an eyebrow at Dick, clearly unimpressed.

Dick smiles sheepishly, running his hand through the hair at the back of his head as heat pools at the back of his neck. Look, he hadn’t _planned_ for the night to go this way. But if he’d hoped he’d have a chance to see Tim wearing his clothes…

Well, sue him.

“There’s gasolene in the garage,” Tim mutters, tossing the now-empty duffel to Dick. He catches it, slinging it around his shoulders. The files on the bedside table get shoved inside. 

“We should hurry before the GCPD gets their act together,” Dick says.

“Bruce’s source said Detective Nygma’s visiting his old precinct right now,” Tim says, shrugging. “How fast on the uptake can the rest of them really be?”

“Hmmm, point.”

Dick pushes the door to the hallway open. The faint moonlight drifting into the bedroom only reaches a few feet beyond the doorway before being swallowed up by the shadows beyond. 

“Ready?” Dick asks, stepping into the hall.

“No,” Tim says, burying his hands in the pockets of his borrowed jacket. “But I don’t think I’ll ever be.” 

Dick says nothing, but his hand drifts to Tim’s shoulder, squeezing lightly before he turns and makes his way down the hall.

Tim’s soft footsteps follow after him, from one darkness to another, deeper shade.

* * *

The myriad screens of the Eyrie’s observation room stretch before Owlman. Each one is partitioned into several video feeds, and each feed flickers to a new viewpoint every handful of seconds. It’s only an auxiliary, of course. A small selection of the truly extensive network that the Auspex runs.

Hers is the second most extensive surveillance system he knows of - right after the Syndicate’s Panopticon moon base - and indisputably the most complete system watching over Gotham. 

She’s not affiliated with the Syndicate and doesn’t bow to Owlman, but their alliance is solid and hasn’t wavered in all the years they’ve kept it. She knows him well enough to know that tonight there’s only one thing on his mind. The only thing he cares to see.

The center screen of the observation room is dominated by several different viewpoints of Drake Manor. Or, Owlman thinks with a slight chuckle, what _used_ to be Drake Manor. Even without sound, he can hear the creaking of wood as fire eats away at it and the soft fall of ash against the fresh snow coating the grounds. The light cast by the burning mansion is bright against the snow, and it throws the landscape surrounding the mansion into sharp relief. 

It’s just enough to make out movement by the mansion’s carriage house. 

He zooms the image in first by fifty, then by one hundred percent. Close enough that he can see the way Talon throws the last gasoline canister away from him, falling to his knees. Owlman narrows his eyes, steepling his fingers. Shrike steps out from the shadows, pulling Talon to his feet. 

For a moment, Owlman thinks Talon is going to fight him. He’s already working out a reprimand in the back of his mind when he realizes that, against his expectations, Talon had not thrown a punch. Instead, he seemed to almost fall into Shrike, wrapping arms around him in a hug.

A hug that Shrike reciprocated. And then some. 

If anyone had been there to ask him, Owlman would tell them that he had known all along. How could he not? He had taken these boys from the streets, from ruin, and overseen every step of their development. He had trained them, and under his guidance, they had become _men_. 

But privately - _secretly_ , even - Owlman has to bury his surprise at the way Shrike holds Talon. The way he presses Talon into the shadowed wall of the carriage house and seems to kiss him for all he’s worth.

Owlman leans back in his chair, the gears of his mind whirring. This is not a development he had anticipated. It isn’t something he had _planned_ for. 

But that doesn’t mean he can’t adapt to. 

After all, he didn’t exact his revenge on the Court, establish his company’s chokehold on Gotham, _or_ trap the rest of the Syndicate’s ruling council beneath his heel without being able to maneuver the game pieces to his liking. 

Even when two of them do something so… unexpected. 

As the mansion burns, Shrike turns on his motorcycle. Talon slinks onto it behind him, wrapping his arms tight around Shrike’s torso. Burying his face in Shrike’s neck. 

The motorcycle tears down the driveway, crossing over the tracks Owlman had seen Shrike leave when he arrived. A second later, they pass out of sight. He tracks them across camera footage, following along as they maneuver the long, twisting back roads between the burning mansion and Owlman’s own. 

His only regret is that he hadn’t managed to get cameras on the _inside_ of the mansion before ordering Talon to burn it to the ground.

Owlman glances as the small clock set off to the side of the room. He estimates that he probably only has about ten minutes before they hit the Eyrie’s eastern secret entrance, plus another five before they reach the observation room to make their report. 

If anyone had been there to watch, they would have seen a slow smirk work its way across the part of Owlman’s face unobscured by his reinforced cowl. They would have considered taking a step back, ice crystals forming beneath their skin as they took in the savage flash of white teeth. 

Owlman pressed a button, archiving the night’s footage. 

Fifteen minutes was _more_ than enough time to plan for this permutation. 

And for how it could be used to strengthen the bonds of _family._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Salazarastark for feedback and cheerleading!


End file.
